


and if the dragons come (fight)

by questionably_fortunate_bamboo



Series: jonsa countdown 2017 [9]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Jonsa Countdown, Wish Fulfillment, this is all i want
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-29 16:29:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11444670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/questionably_fortunate_bamboo/pseuds/questionably_fortunate_bamboo
Summary: Sansa Stark saves her family with a length of white taffeta.(written for day nine of the jonsa countdown - dragons)





	and if the dragons come (fight)

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this while on vacation, so if it seems rushed, it really was. Despite that, I hope you guys enjoy :)

The dragons come for them, and Sansa is no longer the foolish girl she once was. Age and experience have taught her that she will win wars with nerve, not tears. She rebuilds the invisible steel armor that had melted without her realizing it.

( _Castle Black,_ she thinks offhandedly,  _is where she shed all those layers._  One electrifying touch, and it all went crashing to the ground. Is that what Jon does to her?)

It is. The scars he creates are good ones. They radiate warmth and make her skin ache with longing. Late at night, before she falls asleep, she can feel his lips on her forehead or his fingers between hers. Sansa strokes the inside of her thighs and sighs at the soft tingle, but she longs for his hands and his touch.

They have a war to survive. She feels a pang of shame for thinking of her own pleasure when Jon is selflessly devoted to his people. It’s infuriatingly hard not to want him.

“That’s a beautiful dress,” he says one day, as they’re waiting for the other council members to arrive for a meeting. Sansa looks down at her simple black gown with the precariously detailed bodice.

“Thank you, Jon.” She wasn’t expecting him to like it. Jon likes her blue wolf dress, and she wears it as often as she can.

“Do you need any new fabrics?” he asks. “I saw a merchant in Winter Town yesterday with some white silk.”

“You mustn’t worry about me,” she says, smiling to show her gratitude. “There are more important things.”

He only nods. Two days later, she finds a neatly wrapped package on her bed. When she opens it, a gorgeous length of pale white taffeta falls into her arms. It feels like melted moonbeams under her fingers.

Sansa stores it under her bed and doesn’t speak of it. There are too many possible things to be implied with white taffeta, and she has no time to waste on her hopeful fancies. Sometimes she begins to shape the fabric, pinning and marking where she’ll cut and sew, but it’s shoved away just as soon as it’s brought out.

They must live through the winter. They must live through the dragons. She reminds herself of this every day.

And then Jon announces his departure.

At first, she wants to weep. He’s leaving her alone in a cold world that wants to destroy her. But her distress soon turns to heartfelt determination. She will not let the Dragon Queen steal her home and heart.

Sansa goes to the Lord’s chambers and discovers that Jon wants her as much as she wants him. His shirt is torn in haste, her nightgown is ripped down the front. He buries his face between her thighs, drawing curses from her lips that she’s never uttered before. When he thrusts into her, she kisses him and he whispers _I love you_  against her mouth.

He makes every part of her body feel good, and then she begs him to do it again.

“Would you do anything for me?” she asks, when they’ve worn themselves out and curl up against each other for warmth.

“Anything. I’ll fight wars, kill monsters, give up my own life. You’re worth more than the world, my love,” says Jon, laying a soft kiss against her forehead.

“I want you to come back to me. After that, I don’t care. Come back to me, and I swear I’ll protect you.”

He chuckles. “Usually I’m the one promising you things.”

“Shut up,” she says, and they smile at each other like children, like the last six years haven’t happened at all and they’re drifting in a dreamlike state of bliss.

Jon leaves a week after that. In those days, she makes sure she gets as much of him as she can. The burning desire is satisfied many times over. Sometimes he says they should be more careful, that he doesn’t want to dishonor her. This makes her laugh and run her fingers through his dark, curly hair.

 _Damn the consequences,_  she says,  _I need you._  He never denies her.

The night before he’s due to leave, she meets him in the Godswood dressed in a gown of white taffeta. Jon cries when he sees her. Tormund has to kick him in the shins so they can begin the ceremony, which is far from grand. Davos officiates, Bran gives away his sister, and Podrick, Brienne, and Arya bear witness.

The marriage has already been consummated, but Sansa figures that once more for safety is a good principle to live by and Jon wholeheartedly agrees.

In the morning, she doesn’t let him kiss her.

“That’ll be your coming-home present,” she explains. It takes every ounce of bravery in her body to let his fingers fall away from hers.

 _My love,_ he calls her in his letters, _my darling, my sweetheart, my joy._  She prefers those names over her titles. She writes him back, always signing off with  _yours forever, Sansa_.

When Ghost sinks his fangs into Littlefinger’s neck, killing the faithless worm once and for all, she feels a sense of subtle satisfaction. That night, still revelling in her victory, she writes a brief letter to Jon.

 

_To my husband,_

_What would you do if I were with you?_

_Yours forever, in body and soul,_

_Sansa_

 

His reply takes three whole pieces of parchment. Sansa reads it over and over and over. She wishes, for a moment, that Ghost had spared Baelish’s life. It would be terribly amusing to read it out loud to him.

She receives other, less notable letters. Her uncle Edmure writes from Riverrun, where he claims a splinter force of the Dragon Queen’s army has restored him to his rightful place. He pledges his support to the North wholeheartedly, and apologizes in thirty ways for any actions that might have dishonored his house or his family. He seems like a good man, and Sansa knows that even the best people make mistakes to survive. She forgives him.

 _I followed your brother and your mother, and now I will follow you,_ he says. The letter is not all politics, though. He says that his wife Roslin and three-year-old son Edwyn are both well, and would enjoy a trip to Winterfell if the time was right.

She smiles at that, and wonders if little Edwyn has red hair. They are invited north with pleasure.

“You look happy,” says Arya as they’re eating bread and berries for breakfast. “Why are you happy?”

“Because we’re going to survive,” says Sansa. She’s playing her cards correctly, bringing houses to their side one by one. Arya shrugs and takes a large mouthful of bread with blackberry jam.

And then everything changes.

First, her moon blood stops. She attributes it to stress, and thinks nothing of it. Then it’s the sickness. Sansa’s mornings are spent hunched over, heaving and clutching her stomach. Part of her knows, and the other part denies.

Ghost bumps her abdomen with his cold nose one night, looking at her expectantly.

“There’s nothing there, silly wolf,” she says. He regards her with his silent, calm demeanor. Her mind begins racing.

“Is there?” she asks. Ghost bumps her again. That’s all the answer she needs.

 

_Dear Jon,_

_Come home._

_Yours forever,_

_Sansa_

 

A reply doesn’t come, and she prays for her husband’s safety.

Her belly swells quickly. She hides it for as long as she can, but a queen cannot disappear completely. Shaking, she tells the Northern court about her marriage, and now, her pregnancy.

“Congratulations, your grace!” says old Wyman Manderly, raising his tankard of ale. “Your family will always have my blessings.”

The other lords offer their resigned congratulations, albeit with surprise. Lord Manderly earns a special place in her heart.

Her siblings are always with her, already protective of their unborn niece or nephew. Arya bets that he’ll be a boy while Bran swears she’s a girl. Ghost curls up with her at night and nuzzles his head against her abdomen. She spends her free time creating tiny clothes out of scraps of white taffeta. For once in her life, Sansa is not afraid.

Lyanna Stark is born during a blizzard. The winds howl, but Sansa screams louder. Her fingernails cut into Arya’s skin, Bran wipes away her tears, and Brienne does her best to keep everyone calm (even though her efforts are wasted on them). When the maester lays the baby girl in Sansa’s arms, Bran cackles in delight.

“I knew she’d be a girl!” he says. Arya cuffs him on the head.

Recovery isn’t easy, but Sansa returns to her duties soon enough. She refuses to let a wet nurse near her daughter (who looks so much like Jon already). Lyanna is a sweet thing who enjoys everyone’s attentions. Bran carries her on his lap as he wheels around the keep, Arya takes her on walks through the Godswood, and Ghost lets her sleep on him at the end of their long days.

“Papa’s going to be home soon,” Sansa whispers to her one night. “He’s going to love you so much, my darling.”

Fussing slightly, Lyanna babbles at her. Her tiny nose scrunches just like Arya’s does when she’s annoyed.

“Shh, sweet girl. You’re safe.” She smiles. “When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the  _pack_  survives.”

Sansa has become the mother wolf, and she would flood the world with ice before she lets the dragons burn her home away.

Jon always keeps his promises. He comes home to her, riding through the gates in a flurry of commotion. The northern lords approach him, eager for news, but he ignores their queries and marches over to his wife and his daughter.

“She wanted to marry me,” he says, grinning like a fool. “I told her to fuck off. You’re the only one in the world I could ever love.”

“Perhaps you could make an exception for our daughter.” She passes Lyanna, who wears a small bonnet made of white taffeta, into his eager arms.

Tears flow down Jon’s cheeks. “Hello, my sweet little darling. It’s your Papa.”

Sansa kisses him softly, tasting the snowflakes on his lips. Her family is together at last, and she can ask for nothing more than their happiness.

 _“My love,”_  he whispers.  _“My darling, my sweetheart, my joy.”_

“I’m going to protect you,” she says, “just like I promised.” Lyanna coos quietly.

“Does she have a name already? Can we- can we call her Lyanna? Like my mother?” Jon asks, wiping his eyes. Sansa laughs and kisses him again.

They’re whole. They’re safe. She has won the war against the dragons with nothing more than her bare hands and white taffeta.


End file.
